


Carry Your Day

by breathtaken



Series: Pledge [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, Fivesome - F/M/M/M/M, Gangbang, Initiation, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Sit down,” she insists, “and someone, explain. Now.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She half-expects d’Artagnan to argue back; but instead he turns to face her and says through gritted teeth, “They mean to bed you.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The idea is so ridiculous, she almost laughs.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But nobody else is laughing.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“So you mean to do to me what you did to my husband.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry Your Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ceeturnalia (traveller)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/gifts).



> Thank you to [naughtypixie](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie) and [queenaramis](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/queenaramis) for their cheerleading and advice throughout, and of course [ceeturnalia](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia) for bringing such a wonderful idea to my door. 
> 
> **Content notes** : While I hope it goes without saying: the rhythm method is not an effective method of contraception! If you or a sexual partner are at risk of pregnancy, please use birth control. 
> 
> Set post-Series 2, including spoilers for the whole series.

When her boys return from the war Constance throws herself into each of their arms in turn, feeling her beautiful lady’s maid’s dress picking up the mud and dust from the leathers and not caring one bit. ****

D’Artagnan’s first, sweeping her off her feet and making her squeal, clutching her to him so tightly it hurts; and it’s a full half-minute before he lets the others have their turn. Aramis and Porthos, their joy almost matching his, then Athos last, and she holds him at arm’s length for a moment as she looks each of them up and down, d’Artagnan moving to her side and putting an arm round her. They’re battered and bruised – Aramis is leaning heavily on Porthos, who has an arm round his waist – but whole, and she finds herself making some sarcastic remark about their tardiness to try and deflect attention from the sudden tears in her eyes.

Athos gallantly pretends he hasn’t seen, Aramis tipping his hat and proclaiming his injury, “Just a scratch, Madame, I’ll be right as rain in no time,” (and he never called her Madame when she was Bonacieux’s wife, she thinks); and Porthos grins and says simply that he’s pleased to see her, the softness in his eyes telling her just how much.

She doesn’t know what’s expected of her, or them, but once everyone’s bathed and changed their linens and she’s monitored the healing wound on Aramis’ calf, and even Athos has given himself the evening off, they all seem loath to leave the safety of the garrison mess, clustered round the table under the window with a couple of candles and a generous allowance of wine before them, Constance getting used again to the weight of d’Artagnan’s hand, ever-present somewhere on her body as if to anchor himself. It surprises her to find that she’s doing most of the talking; though they have a few fresh campfire stories between them she can well imagine that most of the tales of the war are not for telling, and she can imagine Aramis in particular yearns for news of the Dauphin, which quickly devolves into harmless tales of court gossip that she suspects wouldn’t really interest any of them if only they weren’t so happy to hear her voice, to be home.

She doesn’t know if she and d’Artagnan are expected to disappear off together, to the bedroom she hasn’t slept in since her wedding… not even a _night_ , it was a few hours snatched in the middle of the day before her new husband rode off to war; but he makes no attempt to move, and she finds she’s glad of it.

There will be time for that, to relearn each other after months apart, to finally have the time to _be_ husband and wife together. For now she just wants to stay right here, look around at all their faces and know they’ve returned to her.

By the time d’Artagnan carries her off to bed, lifting her bridal-style up the stairs as he had the last day she saw him, Aramis has already fallen asleep at the table twice, and every bottle is empty.

When the regiment first rode in it seemed to Constance almost the coming of a whole army, but it’s only the next morning she realises that the formerly hundred-strong company is much depleted. Despite being injured himself Aramis seems to be the closest thing they have to a surgeon (she thinks she remembers a man named Montand, but doesn’t want to ask), and he quickly drafts her as his assistant, Athos spending the morning holed up with Tréville in what’s now his office, and Porthos and d’Artagnan making themselves useful wherever they can.

There’s plenty for her to do, fetching and carrying for Aramis as he keeps the weight off his injured leg as much as possible, a steady stream of men with various wounds they’ve brought back from the border that in some cases threaten to make her stomach turn, that all need cleaning and dressing; and throughout it all she finds that she and Aramis keep catching each other’s eye and smiling in a soft, almost intimate way that makes her skin heat a little with pleasure, and then immediate awkwardness.

She doesn’t know what it is. From anyone else that kind of frank gaze would signify a definite interest, but Aramis has always treated her as straightforwardly as he does any of his brothers; and for her part she knows she’s not in love with him, not like she loves d’Artagnan.

She’s just… glad to have him back. _All_ of them, alive and whole; and she still remembers looking at the other three standing without him after Aramis had left for Douai and being shocked by just how _wrong_ it was, their little group entirely out of balance without him, like a table with one of its legs sawn off. If the war had taken one of them – no, it’s just too dreadful to think of.

She thanks God, and the next time their eyes meet, she lets herself hold his gaze a little longer.

The second evening begins just as the first had, with them all eating supper in the mess, at the table under the window that she’s starting to suspect is ‘their’ table, left vacant for them by the rest of the garrison, and breaking out the wine once the plates are cleared away – but somehow things aren’t the same at all. Yesterday, they were all content with nothing more than just to be together; today she and d’Artagnan are distinctly restless, catching each other’s eyes across the table, their glances heavy with meaning as she wonders how quickly they can justify retiring without being entirely impolite.

Yesterday just the touch of their hands was enough, to feel his skin against hers and know that they were together again, that he was home. Tonight she wants more; and they lay together last night, limbs slow and heavy with drink, but tonight she wants to take her time, to keep the candle lit and relearn him, find every new scar in its flickering light.

There has never been enough time, before now. Now, they will take all the time they need.

They’re staring again; and she tears her gaze from d’Artagnan’s just in time to see Aramis turning to Athos with a raise of the eyebrows as if to say, _See?_ , and it’s enough to have her looking away from him again just as quickly, unexpectedly put out.

She’d have expected Aramis to have a little more tact at least, or perhaps a little more sympathy. D’Artagnan left her on the day of her marriage, and has been away long enough that she could have birthed him a child – and thoroughly irritated all of a sudden, she tosses back the last of her wine and stands. “Time to retire, I think,” she says briskly, though she’s unable to help catching d’Artagnan’s eye as he gets up as well, his hand still on her arm.

Unexpectedly, the other three all follow suit, though it’s still early, draining their own glasses and getting to their feet with murmurs of agreement; and the five of them step out into the cool night air and mount the garrison steps together. All the heat of the day has drained away, it’s a clear night and the stars are out, and with d’Artagnan’s hand in hers Constance can’t remember being happier.

They reach d’Artagnan’s door first; but instead of bidding them good night and walking on, the other three stop, lingering behind them as d’Artagnan opens the door.

Constance exchanges a glance with d’Artagnan which has her convinced that he has no more idea what’s happening than she does.

“Good night, then,” he prompts, with one hand on the door handle.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis share a wordless glance – which looks strangely sheepish to her eyes, perhaps even nervous? – before Athos clears his throat a little and says, “Actually, might we come in? There’s a matter we wish to discuss with you both.”

“Won’t take long,” Aramis picks up, his smile not reaching his eyes, already stepping past d’Artagnan and in through the open door.

After that all Constance can do is follow, lighting a candle and sitting herself down on the bed with d’Artagnan at her side, looking curiously at each of their faces in turn as Athos closes the door behind him, trying to work out what could possibly be going on here.

What must they speak of that they couldn’t say in the mess? What has turned Aramis’ smile so unconvincing, Porthos’ face so tight and tense, and Athos’ expression as blank as she’s ever seen it?

Athos steps forward a little, and begins: “Madame. Constance. This is rather belated, but the demands of war left us unable to thank you properly for your part in Rochefort’s downfall. For your assistance in capturing Vargas and delivering him to the palace… and for protecting Her Majesty when we could not.”

It’s so sudden and so unexpected that Constance finds herself entirely at a loss. “I just did my duty to Her Majesty,” she murmurs, though her grip on d’Artagnan’s hand tightens.

Athos nods slightly, in acknowledgement of her words. “As did we all. But you did more than your duty – and I want you to know that any man who had served as well as you did, I would recommend for a commission.”

 _A_ _commission._

For a moment, heart rising and sinking again in her chest in the same breath, Constance doesn’t know what in the world to say.

The only noise in the room is a surprised huff of breath from d’Artagnan beside her, his hand squeezing hers; and she realised he didn’t know this was coming either, isn’t sure why it seems to matter.

“I thank you, but I am content by my Queen’s side,” she manages eventually, her words a politeness but her expression anything but – and as she stares at Athos she can see in his face that he knows just how much she would love to be a soldier, as well as that by virtue of her sex, it is impossible. That the King would never accept a woman Musketeer, however remarkable of ability. “Thank you. Really,” she adds, willing him to understand just how much she means it.

“But what we can offer you –” he seems to hesitate, if only for a moment – “is admittance to our brotherhood, if you wish it. To truly be one of us.”

But before Athos’ words really sink in, the mood is shattered by d’Artagnan beside her, his voice low and deadly:

“You’re joking.”

It all happens so fast.

Athos’ gaze snaps to him, his face changing – and he’s suddenly every inch the commander, eyes glinting steel in the candlelight as he demands, “Do we joke about this?”

And then d’Artagnan’s on his feet, almost-yelling, “How dare you!”; and Porthos is stepping forward, his hands raised as he says, “D’Artagnan, please. Hear him out,” and still nobody has explained to her what’s going on.

“D’Artagnan,” she tries, urgently – desperately, he’s never shown any sign of minding her friendship with his Musketeer comrades before – but he’s still not listening, squaring up to Porthos and glaring over his shoulder at Athos, exclaiming, “From anyone else I would demand satisfaction for this!” as Athos just stares him down, Aramis watching them calmly from where he’s perched on top of d’Artagnan’s trunk against the wall, not seeming to mind in the least that d’Artagnan’s seconds away from a fight –

“D’ARTAGNAN!”

She hadn’t meant to shout; but it works, all of them freezing in place before turning to look at her, three expressions wary and the fourth furious, yes, but she knows him and she can see that there’s something in his eyes that’s wild, almost scared.

“ _Sit down_ ,” she insists, borrowing a little from the imperious tone of command she has learned from her Queen, “and explain yourselves. _Now_.”

She half-expects d’Artagnan to argue back; but instead he turns to face her and says through gritted teeth, “They mean to bed you.”

The idea is so ridiculous, she almost laughs.

But nobody else is laughing.

In fact, the room is silent enough to hear a pin drop. No denials, no jokes, no explanations; all of them just watching her, waiting to see what she’ll do.

“So you mean to do to me what you did to my husband,” she says, deceptively calm, observing the way that makes the three of them glance at each other, in a silent conversation she can’t interpret.

Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears – and no wonder. She doesn’t know at all what to feel.

“I won’t let them,” d’Artagnan insists, sitting back down beside her and taking her hand – as if there was ever any question of them forcing themselves on her, she thinks with annoyance, and has to suppress the desire to pull away, mindful of the fact that d’Artagnan probably needs _her_ touch, though he’s made it look as though he’s giving support to her rather than the other way round.

For some reason it’s Aramis who draws her attention – perhaps because he’s sitting rather than standing, but she realises he’s made no attempt to get involved, hasn’t even spoken once since they came upstairs. If anyone was going to make advances to her she’d have expected it to be him, and yet Athos has done all the talking.

She stares at him, narrowing her eyes. “And what do _you_ have to say for yourself?”

His smile is sharp as he replies: “It’s as d’Artagnan said. Although,” he amends, “not in _quite_ the same manner, unless you particularly wished it.”

Constance feels her face heating a little. She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that Aramis would be thoroughly frank with her.

“Though Athos had a lovely speech prepared, if you want to hear the end of it,” he continues, his manner turning airy. “Showing your trust by opening your legs, or some such.”

Shocked, her gaze snaps to Athos, who appears to be choking on thin air; she hears d’Artagnan taking a furious breath beside her, and cuts in before he can start posturing again:

“ _You_ don’t appear to be doing much to try and convince me.”

She can hear her own irritation in her voice, though she’s not sure why it’s that in particular that’s needling at her so much.

He shrugs. “Honestly? I don’t believe you need it.”

“What he’s _trying to say_ ,” Porthos picks up, glaring at Aramis just as she’s debating the merits of slapping him again, “is that we know you know your own mind.” He raises his eyebrows at d’Artagnan, as if to say _are you going to argue that?_ , and nods when d’Artagnan stays silent. “We’re just giving you the same offer we gave d’Artagnan when he joined us. It’s up to you.”

“You should have told me,” d’Artagnan insists, angry and a little hurt; and when Aramis replies simply, “You’d never have let us propose this,” Constance knows it’s true.

“We’re asking _Constance_ , not you,” Porthos adds, folding his arms, and Constance is taken aback to find she’s strangely grateful. However appallingly improper this whole situation is, there’s a strange courtesy to their logic; and she supposes when one’s unconventional by nature, it only becomes a question of degree.

It’s only when the room falls silent again, all of them looking at her expectantly, that she realises she’s been asked, and she must answer.

“The three of you, wait outside,” she orders, satisfied to see that they move as quickly and obediently as if she were their commander, even Aramis picking up the cane he’s found to walk with and levering himself up off the trunk. “I need to talk to my husband.”

As the door shuts behind them, Constance takes a deep breath and rallies her defences, fully expecting to have to deal with d’Artagnan’s anger; so it throws her entirely when he takes both her hands in his and blurts out. “I didn’t lie with them while we were away. Never while you and I’ve been together.”

_Of course._

With everything else, she hadn’t even thought.

When d’Artagnan told her what had happened, in the first flush of their reawakened affair where they’d promised never again to keep secrets from each other, he’d made it sound as though the nature of his initiation into that particular Musketeer brotherhood had been a one-off. To protect himself, she supposes, so that if she’d been disgusted he could have claimed coercion, an unwillingness to lose the only chance at his childhood dream, that he hadn’t at all liked it.

And she’d accepted that, too shocked at the time to think of asking questions, and too reluctant to give voice to her later intrigue; but his manner now very much suggests that that wasn’t the whole story, and she wonders exactly how much he wasn’t saying.

After all, if he _had_ liked it, why would they have stopped?

She takes a deep breath before she asks, “How many times?”

“I – don’t know. Many.” He holds her gaze, eyes glinting. “But only while we were apart. I swear it.”

Men have lovers. She’s always known that. They want wives for one thing and mistresses for another, and the wives just have to accept it; and she supposes that sometimes those mistresses may not be women at all.

So for d’Artagnan to deny himself for her sake – she knows she should expect as much, when they have promised to be true to each other, but the part of her that is still her mother’s daughter can’t help feeling luckier than she has any right to expect.

“Do you miss them?”

They have all been away for a long time, and she can’t imagine they have denied themselves just because d’Artagnan has refused them.

He nods silently, perhaps not trusting himself to speak.

“It seems to me,” she says carefully, “that you would benefit from my saying yes to them.”

His anger seems to have entirely drained away, but she can tell she’s shocked him. “I can’t let them speak to you like that!”

“And why not? I am not just _your wife_ to them,” she replies, more harshly than she meant, and regrets it immediately when his expression crumples just a little. “I used to have a husband who believed he could speak for me,” she tries again, her tone gentle this time. “I don’t want another one.”

Whether it’s from feelings of concern or ownership, the end result is the same; and she knows the power of comparing d’Artagnan to Bonacieux, and believes that he is a good enough man to understand the warning therein.

She gives her words a few moments to sink in before pressing on, looking her husband straight in the eye, and making herself be fearless:

“Tell me, is Aramis’ body as beautiful as his face?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan replies shakily, his hand gripping hers tightly enough to turn her knuckles white – and she has him, she realises with a curious jolt of power, he’s put himself in her hands, and will follow wherever she leads.

“Are Porthos’ arms as strong as they look?”

“Yes.” He hesitates, then adds, “But he’s always so gentle, even when he teases.”

“And Athos?”

For a moment, silence falls.

“He looks at you,” d’Artagnan says finally, “like no-one else matters.”

And in that moment, Constance knows what she’s going to do.

“I’m glad you didn’t lie with them behind my back,” she says, reaching out, her hand running over d’Artagnan’s cheek, his jaw. “I wouldn’t have wanted that. But if we say yes to this, we get to have them. _Together_.”

“Are you sure?” d’Artagnan asks, as though he hardly dares believe her.

She almost laughs. “No. Not even remotely. But it’s been a bit short on adventure around here while you four were away.”

For a moment he just looks at her, taking in the fact that she’s really proposing this – and then he pulls her close and kisses her, swift and hard and grateful. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” She smiles, hoping to force some bravery to her face. “Now, let’s let them in before they get cold feet.”

She gives d’Artagnan one last kiss before going over to the door and pulling it open, to reveal the three of them still standing there, leaning back against the railings and looking at her warily.

“You can come in,” she says, her sudden nervousness making her sharper than she intends as she turns back into the room, leaving the door wide open and letting them follow.

She’s really going to do this. Let them all have her; and she thrills at the thought, heart in her mouth with a combination of fear and curiosity.

“So how’s this going to work?” she demands as she sits back down beside d’Artagnan, smoothing her hands self-consciously over the front of her skirts as the other Musketeers glance at one another yet again.

Aramis and Porthos are not surprised, just a little triumphant; and if Athos is, he hides it well.

“Initiation into our brotherhood is a vow of total trust,” Athos intones, looking at her with such an expression as if he would look through to her very soul; and though Constance isn’t yet completely sure that she believes in this, she believes that he believes it. That this is more than just a ploy to get between her legs.

“It’s honour,” Porthos adds, equally solemn, “pledging your life to us, as we pledge ours to you.”

“It’s giving yourself –” Aramis smirks, of course he does – “to each of us in turn.”

“Will you have us?” D’Artagnan gets down on one knee before her and takes her hand, for the first time not on her side but _theirs_. “Will you become one of us?”

“I will,” she says, all too aware of the last time she said those words to him, and what they meant.

There’s a momentary silence as Constance’s words sink in; then Porthos says cheerfully, “Alright. As our captain, I think Athos gets to go first. D’Artagnan last.”

“She’s _my_ _wife_ ,” d’Artagnan objects immediately, though he rises when Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re still the new boy,” Porthos counters, pulling him into a rough embrace and kissing him square on the mouth – and Constance starts, she’s never see anything _like_ it, though they all seem utterly unconcerned. The kiss is brief, but there’s just enough time for d’Artagnan to start to melt into Porthos’ arms in a way she decides she definitely wants to see more of later.

“Now, why don’t you keep our resident invalid company over there,” Porthos suggests, giving d’Artagnan a gentle shove in the direction of Aramis and the trunk, as Aramis cheerfully gives him the finger in return. “Athos?”

Athos is the only one of them who’s still wearing his doublet, and Constance doesn’t know if it’s that or something in his manner that makes him seem the least approachable of the four, though she supposes after d’Artagnan she knows him the best. She’s certainly known him the longest, and remembers how he used to seek her out whenever Bonacieux was away, two lonely people searching for a little relief in each other’s company; and the remembrance of that history makes her realise that her fear is only fear of the unknown, and she trusts him with this, as thoroughly as she does d’Artagnan.

When he sits down beside her on the bed in the place that was d’Artagnan’s, she grabs his face in both hands and kisses him before she can lose her nerve.

She feels the pressure of his hands resting at her waist as he kisses back, open-mouthed and immediately passionate. His kisses are different to d’Artagnan’s: not quite so gentle, more focused somehow, she decides, more determined even; his fuller beard is softer under her hands and his hair thicker when she pushes her fingers into it.

She hears a familiar gasp of breath from behind him, and pulls away to see d’Artagnan, sitting next to Aramis on the trunk with his legs hooked over Aramis’ good leg so he’s almost in his lap, staring at the two of them with his mouth hanging a little open.

“Oh, he likes watching that alright,” Porthos comments, sitting down on her other side and resting a hand on her knee through her skirts, leaning in so his breath is hot and intimate against her ear. “Why don’t we give him something else to look at, hmm?”

Without allowing herself to think Constance lets herself be turned around for Porthos to kiss her. His mouth is gentler than even d’Artagnan’s, and he lets her lead him, open her own mouth and place her hands flat against his chest to feel the warmth of his body through the linen of his shirt.

She shivers when Athos starts kissing the nape of her neck, two sets of hands on her sides now and his lips soft and wet along the back and sides of her neck, behind her ear, the edges of her shoulders; and she gasps a little into Porthos’ mouth, hearing him chuckle back before kissing along her jaw, one hand raising her chin so he can kiss down the front of her neck, the distinct tickle of his beard, then the noise of Porthos’ and Athos’ lips finding each other.

“Turn your head,” Porthos says to her, voice deep with amusement, “and look at that.”

She does as she’s bid – and discovers that d’Artagnan is watching her no longer but has curled his body around Aramis’ and is kissing him deeply, one hand in his hair, d’Artagnan’s chemise pulled loose from his breeches as one of Aramis’ own hands disappears beneath.

For a few seconds she just stares, mesmerised by the sight. She’d always have thought she’d hate the sight of d’Artagnan kissing someone else – Lucie de Foix comes inescapably to mind – but she supposes that she’d always assumed it would be a woman, and that another woman would always be a threat to her.

Aramis is no threat; and she’s rapidly realising she _does_ love him, in her own way, as she loves all of them.

 _Brotherhood,_ they called it, and that’s good enough for her.

“They’ve missed each other,” Porthos informs her, and she can hear the grin in his voice as he slides her chemise down off her shoulder, following it down with his lips.

“We’ve all missed him,” Athos adds – and when she meets his eyes, a little startled and not sure what to say, she’s confused all over again when he says quite apropos of nothing, “May I?”

“What?”

“Your bodice,” he clarifies; and it’s only then she realises that his hand is pressing against the small of her back. “May I?”

“Of course,” she replies – and it comes out a little stiff, but she doesn’t quite know what else to say, with her nerves still churning in her stomach and the feeling that between the two of them they’ve kissed her quite light-headed; so she falls silent, smiling a little as Athos presses his lips to hers, more in reassurance than anything else, she thinks, and turns her back towards Porthos, who’s kissed his way right down her arm and is now pressing kisses to each of her fingertips in turn.

She keeps half her mind on Athos as he unlaces her bodice, mindful of some of d’Artagnan’s early attempts (and the last thing she wants is to create more mending for herself, even on a bodice so everyday as this one); but Athos’ fingers are sure and his movements precise, and she remembers that he was married and he surely knows what he’s doing, she can afford to close her eyes for a moment and just let herself feel, two sets of lips on the ridges of her shoulders and the rasp of laces running through eyelets as the customary pressure of her bodice loosens around her chest.

She opens her eyes again as that pressure falls away entirely and lets Athos slide the straps off her shoulders, leaving her in her chemise; and he turns her a little on the bed, pulls her back against his body and wraps his arms around her waist from behind, humming his approval when she buries her face in his neck and kisses the skin above his collar.

Porthos scoops her legs up and over his lap, grinning at her as he runs his hands up beneath her skirts, touching her feet, her ankles, her calves, up to the knee and back down, as Athos presses his lips to her temple and moves his hands up to cup her breasts, making her moan out loud with the sudden shock of pleasure as he brushes ever so lightly over her nipples through the linen.

And then she hears the sound of boots on floorboards and turns her head to see d’Artagnan falling on his knees beside the bed, unpicking her hand from where it’s clutched unsteadily around Athos’ thigh.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, as if he’s been running hard, “I can’t.”

Something drops in Constance’s stomach – _he can’t_ , doesn’t he realise that they’ve committed to this, that everything has changed with it and they can’t go back to who they were, not now – but then she realises he’s opening his mouth to speak again, and it’s Porthos he’s looking at, not her at all.

“I can’t just sit back and watch you with her – it’s been _so long_ , for God’s sake, I need to be with her,” he babbles, and Constance’s sense of sheer _relief_ is overwhelming. “I need to be here.”

“Alright. Sit here,” Athos offers, reaching out and pulling d’Artagnan up and into a kiss scant inches from Constance’s face. Again, she marvels at the way d’Artagnan seems to melt under all their touches, and wonders if that’s what he looks like when he’s with her as well.

“Glad to have you back,” Athos says as he pulls away, pushing d’Artagnan back a little with a hand flat to his chest, between the low collar of his shirt.

D’Artagnan grins, suddenly glowing with pleasure. “Glad to be back. Now give me back my wife.”

“Come on, Athos,” Aramis complains behind them, a little louder than necessary, “I’m getting cold.”

Athos rolls his eyes at Constance before giving her a swift kiss, and she can’t help smiling, knowing that really he loves it as much as she does. “Duty calls,” he quips, getting up off the bed and making way for d’Artagnan, who’s in Athos’ seat the moment it’s vacated, pulling Constance back into his arms.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling her so tightly into his body it almost hurts, kissing her almost as deeply, as desperately as he had when they were first reunited; and instead she feels like she’s the one melting into _him_ , relaxing into the comfort of his arms, the reassurance of the familiar that she hadn’t realised she needed.

“Hey,” she replies, smiling against his lips. Her _body’s_ missed him as much as her heart has, she decides, and she’s glad he realised what he needs, that what they both need is to be together and to do this together, with him beside her all the way.

She squeaks in surprise when large hands brush over her thighs, thumbs only inches from her sex.

“Sorry, did I make you jump?” Porthos grins as she glares at him, not looking sorry in the least as his fingers start to stroke circles over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

“Not at all,” Constance replies, with as much dignity as she can muster. She senses d’Artagnan’s smile, feels him squeeze her around the waist as he presses his lips against her hair, and it’s the security of his presence that gives her the strength to smile herself – as if she’s calm, collected and in control here, when in actual fact she feels as if she’s barely keeping it together – and arch an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to try a bit harder for that.”

Her smile becomes positively smug as she hears Aramis’ delighted laughter from behind her.

“Alright then,” Porthos grins back at her, looking every bit as pleased with her wit as she is herself. “But I’m told you might want something to hold onto for this.”

Given where his hands are, she fully expects him to reach up and press against her sex – but instead he encourages her to lift her hips, pulling her skirts down and off – she hadn’t even noticed them being undone – before diving under her chemise, face-first.

She stiffens, holding her breath; but they adjust her position first, d’Artagnan shifting back until she’s lying against his chest and Porthos pressing on her knees and tilting her hips up, so when his lips first press against her cunt she’s relaxed a little, isn’t quite prepared – and this time she does jump a little, letting out a gasp of surprise that quickly turns to pleasure as Porthos’ hands come up to cup her, parting her curls with his fingers and licking long and slow between her folds, a glorious soft, wet pressure.

She gropes blindly behind her for d’Artagnan’s hand, finding and grasping it, her other hand fisting in the loose fabric of his chemise as she struggles to control her breathing against the sudden flush of pleasure spreading out through her body from where Porthos is tonguing just behind her clit, all too aware of the near-silence in the room. They’re all still, watching her, listening to her, and it’s too much suddenly, she needs –

“Talk to me,” she begs, looking up into d’Artagnan’s face, squeezing his fingers for emphasis. “Anything. Just talk to me.”

“I… I thought of you,” he replies haltingly, sounding almost as breathless as she feels, “every moment I had to myself. We were almost always busy, between the fighting and the camp chores, but – I thought of you whenever I could. I put my hand on my cock and imagined it was your hand. Is that –”

“ _Yes_ ,” Constance moans rather than says, hardly able to believe her ears. They’ve _never_ spoken to each other like this, and d’Artagnan’s words seem to be feeding the fire deep inside her, working her as thoroughly from within as Porthos’ mouth and hands are from without. “Tell me.”

“Yes. Erm. I dreamed about you.” His other hand is pushing down the neck of her chemise, reaching out to knead her breast, pinching her nipple until she moans. She can’t stop gasping, air and more air to fan the flames as she writhes between both their hands, pressing her cunt up into Porthos’ tongue as he thrusts it right inside her. “About touching you just like this, how beautiful you look when you come. I woke up reaching for you so many times, desperate to sheathe myself inside you and fuck you awake. I’ve never wanted anything so much.”

“So did I,” she finds herself whispering, emboldened by his confession, the force of her desire making her reckless, the presence of the other three almost forgotten for all that it’s Porthos between her legs, lapping at her. “I mean. I used to – touch myself, sometimes, pretend it was you. Even when I made myself come, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.”

“I thought of it. I wondered whether you’d touch yourself thinking of me too. I hoped you would.” D’Artagnan’s hand is moving between one nipple and the other as Porthos’ fingers push inside Constance’s cunt, not thrusting but questing, stretching – preparing her to take his cock, she thinks, with a sweet flush of shame. “Sometimes I imagined you alone in my bed, pretending your hands were mine, touching your breasts, rubbing your clit.” He pauses, voice dropping lower. “I imagined you had a phallus and were fucking yourself on it.”

“Where would _I_ get such a thing?” she asks, face heating at the very idea of it; but she’s too far gone and any censure she intended is lost, her words just coming out strained and needy.

“I’ll get you one,” d’Artagnan promises, “for if I have to leave you again. Aramis will know where –” and that reminds her, that she’s here not just with d’Artagnan but with all four of them, Athos and Aramis watching them, and maybe listening too.

She tries to twist round and look, and d’Artagnan stops her, arm holding her in place. “Don’t worry. They won’t have heard.” He turns his own head briefly, and she sees the grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “And it looks like they’re keeping each other busy enough.”

“Oh? What are they doing?”

“Well, Athos is on his knees, sucking Aramis’ cock.” He smiles all the wider, and she wonders exactly what her face looks like right now, if she’s blushing. “He won’t let him come, though. Aramis always likes to take his time. In bed’s the only place he’s patient. He’s only going to be coming inside you.” His expression turns suddenly doubtful. “If it’s alright…?”

“Yes. It’s fine,” Constance assures. She knows her own body and keeps track of her cycles, and between the phase of the moon and the tenderness beginning in her breasts, it can only be a few days until her courses come.

“Good.” D’Artagnan leans over to kiss her forehead. “I think we all know Aramis’ seed is too potent for its own good.”

Constance can’t help the shocked giggle that bubbles out where she was expecting a gasp. Though she loves the Dauphin almost as much as his mother does she’s all too aware of the disaster, only narrowly averted, that followed; and in their long months apart she’d forgotten how utterly scandalous d’Artagnan can be at times, for all his morals.

She’s about to tease right back, say _you’re terrible;_ but just then Porthos crooks his fingers and finds that spot deep in her cunt that makes heat rush out through her whole body, makes her moan _hard_ , again and again as his fingers and tongue start to move in concert, her orgasm rising and rising inside her as she waits for the dam to break –

And then he stops. Just stops, lifting his mouth and his hands from her sex and sliding his fingers out of her clit, leaving her empty, leaving her bereft as he pushes her chemise back to her thighs and sits up between her knees, beard glistening.

“I think you’re ready for me,” he grins; and for a moment she almost wants to grab him by the collar, pull him back down between her legs and demand he finish the job, though she’s all too aware that they’re not playing by her rules tonight. That to become one of them she must put herself in their hands entirely, and just take what she’s given.

He raises an eyebrow and prompts, “Well?”, and only then does she realise he’s expecting a response.

For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say. Not _please_. She’s not going to beg him for it.

After a moment it comes to her – and she smiles back, all self-possession and a little danger, and raises her own eyebrow in response. “If you’ve done your job, I am.”

Porthos laughs, as she was hoping he would, a deep belly laugh. “Oh, I do like a lady who keeps me on my toes. Right, sit up a moment?”

“Alright.” She reluctantly lets go of d’Artagnan’s hand and pushes herself up into Porthos’ arms, and when she feels two sets of hands grab the hem of her chemise and ease it up and off until she’s entirely bare she hides her uncertainty by burrowing as close against him as she can.

“Hey.” D’Artagnan touches her arm, until she reaches back and her hand finds his. “Lie down for me. I’ll be right here.”

She does as he asks because it’s easier than letting herself think about how nervous she is suddenly, turning into him as he lies down beside her – and he’s stripped off while she was in Porthos’ arms, she realises, down to his braies, and he gathers her close and holds her face against his warm bare chest, pressing her ear against his beating heart.

The other three are talking, but she deliberately tunes them out, just needing a moment for herself, with her husband beside her; until she hears the thumping of boots again and the scraping sound of wood on wood, and twists around in surprise to see Aramis leaning on his cane as Athos and Porthos drag d’Artagnan’s trunk right over to the side of the bed, Aramis hobbling over and sitting heavily back down as soon as it’s in place, suddenly close enough to touch.

“We were too far away,” he explains, the smoothness of his smile only highlighting his dishevelment (and her face heats to remember what d’Artagnan said Athos was doing to him only moments before). “I’m afraid I can’t really bend down.”

It takes her a moment to realise what he’s asking – and then still she hesitates, only too conscious of her nudity (and of Athos sitting beside Aramis, one hand on his good knee and his keenly interested eyes on her, of Porthos still standing beside the bed, stripping off his shirt). But she knows she must, she has given herself to them by agreeing and all that remains is to follow through; and so she pulls away from d’Artagnan’s arms and kneels up on the mattress, leaning in to kiss him.

She knows Aramis has a reputation, but it’s only now, with his mouth exploring hers, the skilled pressure of his lips and the delicate flicks of his tongue as he cups her face in his hands and guides her, that she realises exactly what this is going to mean for her. His kisses seem the sharpest somehow, the most focused, and she imagines he’s studying her, adjusting his movements to match hers –

And then suddenly there are hands on her breasts and she gasps her shock and desire into his open mouth – Athos’ hands, she thinks, they’re not Aramis’ and she’d know d’Artagnan’s – and when a hand that’s surely d’Artagnan pushes between her legs and rubs two fingers between her slick folds she wonders for a feverish moment if she could come like this, without even anyone inside her.

“Hey, leave some for me,” Porthos mock-chides, the mattress shifting as he climbs onto the bed beside her and places a warm, large hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder, pulling her gently away from Aramis’ mouth (those _were_ Athos’ hands on her breasts, she notes dimly) and turning her towards him. He’s naked too now, and she knew he was broad but there’s so _much_ of that warm brown skin, dotted with scars the way she imagines d’Artagnan’s will be some day, and when her eyes drop down she can’t help jerking them back up again in alarm, suddenly not sure what’s permitted her.

“Oh, you can look,” he smiles; not teasing her, at least. “In fact I’d like you to.”

Fascinated, she drops her eyes to where he’s reaching down and wrapping his hand round his cock, giving it a few slow strokes. He’s large, definitely thicker than she’s ever seen, and she really hopes she can take him.

Just as she’s trying to work out if she should say something – if she should touch him – he looks past her and says with a grin, “I just need to get myself warmed up a bit first. D’Artagnan?”

And Constance stares, her mouth hanging open as her husband twists around on the bed and seems to positively hurl himself at Porthos’ lap, wrapping his lips around the head of his cock in one fluid movement.

“Gorgeous, isn’t he?” Aramis says almost conversationally, pulling her as close as their respective positions will allow, letting her lean on his good leg as Athos reaches down to her sex – and that’s another surprise, that Athos should be so forward with her when she’d expected him to be the most reticent, maybe even reluctant, by virtue of their long history if not his own inherent nature. “Porthos’ was the first cock he sucked, did he tell you? He had his head in his lap just like this, while I fucked him from behind.”

“No. He didn’t,” Constance gasps, unable to look away from the scene before her, the motion of Athos’ fingers – two of them, rubbing slickly back and forth, either side of her clit – making it difficult to think clearly. “I knew, but – not –”

“Not the details? Then he’s got plenty to tell you,” Aramis replies, his hand roaming everywhere he can reach, over her breasts and her stomach and down, sliding one finger between Athos’ two to rub directly over her clit until the pleasure’s so intense it almost becomes pain, before lifting Athos’ hand away from her entirely, leaving her still-unsatisfied. “Ask him, when he’s got his mouth free.”

She nearly chokes when Aramis lifts Athos’ hand to his mouth and sucks his fingers clean, giving her a wolfish smile as she stares at him in blank shock.

While she’s no blushing virgin, it seems that as far as sexual depravity’s concerned she still has a fair amount to learn.

“Mm, alright,” Porthos hums in contentment, drawing her attention again as he pushes d’Artagnan’s head gently off his cock. “Much as I love that, we’ve got other things to be getting on with.”

D’Artagnan kneels obediently back, turning to her – and she can see the moment he falters, realising what she’s just seen, and what exactly it means.

Though she’s known he was intimate with the three of them for a long time now, she’d never thought before this evening what that might mean; and he knows as well as she does that the way he first told it was thoroughly ambiguous, framed as an indiscretion, something he might even regret. She’d certainly never allowed herself to imagine anything like this, the man she loves sucking cock with a smile on his face and his eyes falling shut, letting himself be moved back and forth along Porthos’ shaft as if he’s thoroughly at peace there.

While she couldn’t put a name to what she feels, the facts are thus: she loves him, and she couldn’t look away.

So she smiles, reaching for him and pulling him into a kiss, because she knows all too well what it is to be brave, to bare your heart to someone you love and hope they’ll understand.

“Aramis is right,” she murmurs in his ear, “you are gorgeous, and I love you so very much.”

“I love you too,” he replies, his smile near-blinding, the smile she fell in love with. “Now. It’s time.”

She lets him lower her back down on the bed, all too aware of Athos and Aramis watching, of Porthos seeming to loom over her, and half wants to say no, to take it all back; but when he follows her down it’s just to kiss her, bracing an arm beside her head and trailing his other hand down her body, the broad strokes of his palm working to rekindle her desire.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” he says, turning to kiss d’Artagnan, who’s stretched out along her side, reaching for Constance’s hand and taking it in his; and she doubts she’ll ever tire of the sight of them together.

Beside her Athos and Aramis are kissing too, one of Aramis’ hands pressing against Athos’ crotch through his breeches; and she doesn’t know if it’s to give her the illusion of privacy but she finds she appreciates it, that it settles her nerves again enough for the wanting ache between her legs to come right to the fore, wanting more, wanting it _now_.

“Ready,” she says, resting her other hand on Porthos’ hip as she spreads her legs a little wider and he shifts himself up and back in response, pausing just as she feels the blunt tip of his cock pressing against her entrance.

“And I don’t need to pull out?”

He looks between the both of them, and Constance says firmly, “No,” as d’Artagnan shakes his head beside her.

“Alright then.” He winks. “Here goes.”

Then Constance feels him start to push, gasping with the size of it, the stretch – and immediately d’Artagnan’s turning her face towards his and kissing her deeply, muttering against her lips, “I want to kiss you while he fucks you,” breathing in her breath as Porthos pushes inside her more slowly and carefully than she’s ever felt, taking his time, making the slight burn of it sweet rather than painful.

Once he’s inside her up to the hilt he drops his head and takes his turn to kiss her, turning her face back from d’Artagnan’s as he starts to thrust, steady and measured and so _good_ until she feels as though she must be glowing with it. “Gorgeous,” Porthos says, his smile slow and sweet as he fucks her, and she _feels_ it too, feels just as desired by him as she ever has been by d’Artagnan, but now there’s both of them; and she turns her head past Porthos’ shoulder to see the other two watching her and Porthos together, Aramis’ hand wrapped around Athos’ exposed cock – and it’s dizzying to have so much suddenly, when all her life she’s never dared think of herself as anyone special.

Porthos shifts his hips up and forward, changing the angle of his thrusts until he’s pressing against her sex with every movement – and that does it suddenly, every gasp becomes a moan and she’s getting closer and closer, heat building and building and _yes_ , flooding her as she cries out with her eyes on Porthos’ face, inches from hers, d’Artagnan’s lips by her ear telling her how beautiful she is, how much he loves her, she can feel herself clenching and it isn’t long until Porthos’ hips snap faster and faster until he groans long and ragged and she feels the warm wetness of his seed fill her.

She turns her face up for a kiss, the afterglow of her orgasm filling her with affection; and as she and Porthos grin at each other like two sappy fools, she thinks she finally realises what they all meant when they spoke of brotherhood. That now that she and Porthos have known each other, they’ve shared something that cannot be undone nor taken back, just as they did on the borderlands with her sword at Vargas’ throat, just as they did in Her Majesty’s antechamber where they all stood silently and watched Rochefort die.

Maybe she can never be a Musketeer herself, but she knows in her bones that after this evening she will be one of their brotherhood all the same.

With a final kiss to her forehead, Porthos slides himself out of her body, getting up onto his knees; and immediately d’Artagnan’s pulling her into his embrace, holding her against him as he breathes, “You’re incredible. Just incredible. I never thought…”

“Neither did I,” Constance agrees, meaning both that she’d never imagined doing anything like this, and that she’d never imagined seeing her d’Artagnan in someone else’s arms and _liking_ it, the way she felt seeing him with Porthos. “But – they’re different. Aren’t they.”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan hesitates for a moment, unsure, but then seems to decide: “They’re family.”

She’d never thought of it that way – but when he says it, it makes perfect sense.

D’Artagnan has nobody else, she’s always known that much, and Athos, Porthos and Aramis have been there for him ever since he came to Paris, even when she couldn’t be; and now she has no-one else either, she supposes, what with Julian and Alphonse both lost in the war and Martin taking holy orders years before, and what was left of her relationship with the Bonacieux family destroyed for good when she married a penniless soldier just weeks after her first husband’s death.

While she has her Queen, who’s never been anything but good to her, Constance knows all too well that she will always be her servant before her friend, that their relationship can never be one of equals; but here, with the men that she’s thought of as _her_ Musketeers for far longer than is proper, she knows that she can build something new, for both of them.

“Family,” she repeats thoughtfully, feeling the way her smile takes over her face, irrepressible. “Yes. I rather like that.”

As they’re kissing, she feels a hand press on her hip; and Athos’ voice behind her, warm and amused, asking, “Is there room there for me?”

 _He’s next_ , Constance remembers; and if she hadn’t already been inclined to say yes then the way d’Artagnan raises his head to look at Athos over her shoulder, his amber-brown eyes wide and full of wanting, would have decided her.

D’Artagnan’s bed is intended for a single soldier and is a tight enough fit with the two of them, and with three it’s near-impossible, d’Artagnan’s back pressed up against the wall and Constance propped half on top of his chest so that Athos can climb on behind her – naked, she realises, his erection slotting hard and hot between her buttocks, making her suck in a breath.

He kisses the nape of her neck as he lifts her left leg over d’Artagnan’s, dropping his hand down into the gap to cup her exposed sex, his gentle pressure just enough to flush her with pleasure all over again as he pushes himself up and leans over her so that he can kiss d’Artagnan full on the lips, and then her on the corner of her mouth.

Constance smiles to herself when Athos says, “D’Artagnan, you seem to be overdressed,” but when d’Artagnan’s hands go immediately to the laces of his braies, and he looks up from beneath his lashes and says, “Yes, Captain,” she can’t fully contain her noise of shock, mirrored immediately by two noises of distinct interest from behind them.

“Oh my,” Athos says mildly, amusement plain in his voice. “How long have you been thinking of that, _soldier_?”

“Ever since I heard,” d’Artagnan confesses, something strangely beautiful in the way he looks at Athos, just a little unsure. “I used to lie awake thinking about coming to your tent and getting on my knees for you.” The words are bubbling up out of him as if he’d choke on them if he held them back any longer, and Constance knows this, it’s the same way he spoke when he first told her of his initiation.

Then his eyes flick to hers; and for some reason, whatever he sees in her face is enough to reassure him again, to make him grin back at Athos and raise an eyebrow as he says playfully, “I’m ready for my orders, Captain.”

The look Constance shares with Athos is enough to have her biting her lip to keep from laughing.

“Not tonight, soldier,” Athos replies gently, reaching briefly up to press glistening fingers to d’Artagnan’s lips, Constance watching wide-eyed as he sucks them inside his mouth as if he’s pretending they’re Athos’ cock. “Tonight is about Constance. But you can come to me after…?” He looks at Constance, wordlessly seeking her permission.

“We’ll talk about it,” Constance replies firmly. While she can’t imagine refusing him they still need to have that conversation, and now is hardly the time.

“I love you,” d’Artagnan says to her as Athos takes his fingers away and reaches back down to her sex again, pressing between her folds and making her moan to realise how sensitive she still is there. “I’m so lucky.”

“We both are,” she agrees, gasping against his lips as Athos’ fingers start to circle, kissing him deeply and tasting her juices in his mouth.

“I’d like to take you,” Athos murmurs in her ear as he fingers her, “just like this. And d’Artagnan can touch you here while I fuck you. What do you say?”

“Yes,” Constance replies, a little dizzy at the thought of it, from d’Artagnan’s sharp intake of breath beside her. She’s always imagined that being taken from behind would be more demeaning than anything, but she can’t see that being true of this, not all together with both of them holding her.

“Wonderful,” he says, nuzzling her neck as he shifts down the bed, moves a little away and pulls her back by the hips until she’s on her knees, before pressing his cock up between her legs and along between her folds, where his fingers were only moments ago. “I must confess, I wasn’t sure if you’d have us. I’ve rarely been so pleased to be wrong.”

“It’s not entirely for my own sake,” Constance replies, her own eyes flicking to d’Artagnan’s face, though Athos must surely have known that already.

“Of course,” he replies, moving her plait out of the way so he can kiss just behind her ear before commanding, “d’Artagnan, your hand.”

Without a word d’Artagnan reaches down between their bodies, and she hears him hum out a noise of contentment as she feels his hand pressing Athos’ cock harder against her, his fingers dipping around into her wetness and smearing it all over until Athos is thrusting between her clit and d’Artagnan’s hand, the knowledge of it almost as affecting as the sensation.

“Raise your arse,” Athos instructs, shifting again, and as she does so they both reach between her legs, guiding Athos inside her.

It’s not going to be so overwhelming, she thinks; she certainly doesn’t feel as full as she did with Porthos, but having him pressed up along her back, being in d’Artagnan’s arms makes her stop caring that she’s on her knees, not when it feels so good, when d’Artagnan’s kissing her and swallowing all her moans as his fingers work her clit and Athos sets up a rhythm that’s hard and relentless, thrusting in and in and in until she feels half-crazed with it, twisting her upper body in an attempt to have them both kiss her, trying to have everything at once.

“God, I love seeing you two together,” d’Artagnan says with audible wonder, voice pitched just a little too loudly, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re so beautiful like this, he’s fucking you so _hard_. Just listen to the noises you’re making.”

Constance feels like she couldn’t _not_. Her moans are forced out of her with every thrust of Athos’ cock inside her, harder than she’s ever been fucked, until it feels like she can barely draw breath between them. She feels so loud it’s obscene, so loud she’s surprised she hasn’t brought half of Paris to their door, but she knows she couldn’t be quiet if they asked her, the noises coming from somewhere deep inside that she has no control over, and she presses her lips to d’Artagnan’s in desperation because it’s all just a little too much.

Athos’ only noise is the harshness of his breath in time with her moans and his thrusts, hot on the back of her neck as he pushes her harder, higher than she’s ever felt, her cunt on fire with the force of it, part of her wanting nothing more than for it to end and at the same time wanting it never to stop, to be suspended in this moment forever, crying out into d’Artagnan’s open mouth while Athos fucks her from behind, d’Artagnan’s fingers furiously working her clit until she can hardly think, the only word coming to mind is _please, please, please_ even though she’d never say it, safe in the knowledge that they’ll give it to her all the same.

When she comes she clenches hard enough around Athos’ cock that she can feel every inch of it as he thrusts, fast and ragged and moaning into her neck as she clamps down on him over and over, wave after wave of hot pleasure that feels like it will never be over, shaking in both their arms and shoving d’Artagnan’s hand away from her clit – it’s too much suddenly, she can’t stand it, and she feels him reach up and lace his fingers with Athos’ on her hip instead – and she doesn’t know if that’s what does it but in the next second Athos starts to shake too as he groans out his climax against her hair, spurting hot inside her.

The next thing she knows Athos is sliding out and rolling her onto her side before he leans over to kiss d’Artagnan, one of his hands tangling in her husband’s long hair; and as they both look over at her with twin expressions of fondness she can’t help giggling suddenly, though she has no idea what’s funny, and takes advantage of d’Artagnan’s momentary confusion to reach down between their bodies and palm his erection through his braies, smirking when he gasps.

He was supposed to undress, she remembers; and before she can think twice about it she commands, “Take them off.”

D’Artagnan stills, looking round at the others – and even that moment’s hesitation is enough to have Athos picking up in a bored voice, “Come on, you heard the lady,” and Constance almost laughs in delight when he snaps his fingers for effect.

They all have to shift around again, d’Artagnan getting up to stand by the bed while Athos takes his place, gathering Constance into his own arms so they can both watch the way Aramis reaches out to unlace d’Artagnan’s braies, giving him teasing kisses as he undoes the laces tantalisingly slowly and with far more pressure to d’Artagnan’s cock than is necessary, just to have him gasp against his lips.

“Oh, it’s so nice to have you back, d’Artagnan,” Aramis purrs as he pushes d’Artagnan’s braies off his hips and down to the floor, leaving him bare, reaching out to take his erection in hand and smiling all the wider at the way it makes him moan. “We’ve all missed you terribly.”

“And I you,” d’Artagnan breathes, looking round at all three of them, and then at Constance where she lies in Athos’ embrace, his eyes wide and pleading. “Maybe we can…?”

“We need to talk about it, but – yes,” she agrees, her heart swelling in her chest at the way he beams at her, as Athos holds out a hand and encourages him back onto the bed. “We’ll figure something out.”

She doesn’t know quite what this is going to be yet, but she can’t imagine going back from it now. She wants them – _all_ of them – and it seems that they want her just as much in return.

“Good,” Porthos says vehemently, reaching out to take d’Artagnan’s face in one hand – he’s dressed in his braies again, Constance notices. “Cause I don’t know about you lot, but there’s plenty else I wanna try.”

“Well, some of us are still waiting for our turn,” Aramis points out archly, as d’Artagnan leans forward and lets Porthos pull him into a kiss. “Would you gentlemen be so kind as to help me onto the bed?”

Constance sits back against the foot of the bed where she’s joined by d’Artagnan, Athos giving her a last kiss before getting up to help Porthos strip Aramis of his clothes and help him onto the mattress, positioning him so he’s laid flat on his back. He _is_ beautiful, Constance thinks as he pushes himself up on his elbows and smiles with uncomplicated pleasure at them both, his torso dotted with scars and his cock half-hard and laying flat against his belly, even the swathe of bandages around his right calf, just below his knee, not detracting too much from the overall picture.

“Constance. Come and say hello,” he says, holding out his hand; and she slides herself carefully up beside him, mindful not to jostle his leg, until she’s stretched out along his side with the wall a little too cold against her back and can kiss him.

“Mmm. If I’d known we’d be doing this I wouldn’t have gone and got myself injured,” he remarks between kisses, already reaching over to knead her breast with one hand, eyes flicking around and taking in the other occupants of the room. “Fortunately you’re just as lovely to watch as you are to touch.”

Constance’s face heats – after all she’s done this evening it surely shouldn’t be this easy to embarrass her – and she can’t help looking pleadingly at d’Artagnan, searching for reassurance; and though he reaches up to caress her ankle he can’t reach her where she is, Aramis taking up most of the space out of necessity, and he just shrugs in apology.

“Now, what I’d like from you first,” Aramis starts (and Constance is under no illusion that he’s missed that little byplay), “is for you to put of your knees either side of my head, and lower yourself onto my mouth, so that I can taste almost all of my lovers together. How does that sound?”

“Depraved,” Constance blurts out, shocked into honesty; but he only smiles all the wider, raising his hand to her face as he replies, “And yet I have a feeling you’re going to like it. Come on, up you come, and d’Artagnan’s going to come and help you through.”

D’Artagnan’s already shifting himself up to take Constance’s place as she kneels up beside Aramis’ head, nervous of taking that final step and straddling him, especially with so many eyes still on her, but then Aramis reaches for her hand, squeezing her fingers as he encourages, “Come on. I’ve seen you kill a man, you can do this,” and she can’t help smiling weakly, lifting their joined hands to his lips so he can press a kiss against her fingers.

Then d’Artagnan’s there, kissing her full on the mouth, and she closes her eyes and lets him guide her leg up and over Aramis’ head, Aramis’ hands grabbing onto her hips and pulling her down and into place, until she’s pressing her cunt against his open mouth.

He hums out his satisfaction below her, ignoring her clit for now and mouthing at her hole, swiping with his tongue – and it’s _filthy_ to think of, that it’s their mingled seed he’s licking out of her, and so she keeps her eyes firmly shut as she senses d’Artagnan straddling Aramis’ chest and kneeling facing her, taking her face in his hands again and kissing her, as she gropes blindly forward to find his waist and then, emboldened by her lack of sight, slides a hand down to his cock.

Just as she grips him gently and hears his answering groan of pleasure, Athos’ voice comes suddenly from out of the dark, deep and commanding: “Don’t.”

She lets go as quickly as if d’Artagnan’s heat were enough to burn her.

“Captain?” she asks, if she’s honest mostly to hear the way d’Artagnan huffs in shocked desire against her mouth, and kisses her even harder for it.

“You may touch him anywhere but his cock,” Athos finishes; and d’Artagnan _whimpers_ against her, she decides there’s no other word for it, as she strokes her hands up his stomach to touch his nipples instead, rolling them lightly between thumb and finger, surprised when that makes him stutter a gasp into her mouth.

“Mmm. He likes that,” Porthos informs her, his voice full of satisfaction, “did you know?”

“No, he – _ah_ ,” Constance can’t help the moan that escapes her just as Aramis shifts forward and tongues her clit for the first time, the timing probably deliberate, knowing him. “He’s never said.”

And she’s a little ashamed to realise she’s never asked, never explored; whenever they’ve been together she’s always just let him lead, let him make her come and taken his own desires at face value, assumed that all he might want is to fuck her, to come inside her, or maybe sometimes have her mouth.

It’ll be different now, she promises herself. They’re man and wife now, they have time at last. They’ll learn from their brothers, and in doing so learn each other.

As she pinches his nipples a little harder, Constance feels d’Artagnan’s hands move to cover her own breasts; and she loses track of how long they stay like this, touching each other and gasping, moaning into each other’s mouths, Constance’s pleasure not overwhelming but steady and warming, Aramis’ lips and tongue thankfully gentle against her sensitive sex.

When Aramis lifts her gently up and off him she’s surprised, half-expecting that he would have wanted to make her come; but he just smiles up at her, blissed-out, and pulls her down into a kiss – to taste herself in his mouth, she realises belatedly, and Athos and Porthos too, the flavours musky on his tongue, strange and so dirty, though he doesn’t seem at all affected.

Nor does d’Artagnan, who surprises her as well when he hauls her back to him, moved over so they’re both kneeling at Aramis’ side, licking the taste from her mouth as if he wants nothing more than to share in it as Aramis’ hand rests lightly on her waist.

“Now, I’m afraid our options here are rather limited,” Aramis says apologetically, the thumb stroking over her side a little ticklish, “by this damn leg.” He waits until she turns to look at him before adding, “You’ll have to ride my cock.”

Constance is sure she must be flushing. She can’t quite look at him – can’t look at anyone – and when d’Artagnan pulls her against him she goes gladly, burying her face in his shoulder and closing her eyes as he holds her head in place, all too aware of Aramis’ hand rubbing gentle circles in the small of her back, over and over.

“Hey. You’re doing great,” d’Artagnan reassures her – and perhaps he can feel the way she screws up her face against his neck, thinking _come on_ _now_ _,_ _any fool can_ _spread_ _her legs_ , because he immediately changes tack. “It’s amazing, seeing you together. I’d never have dared imagine it. And this isn’t really different from what you’ve already done.”

“No, I suppose,” she agrees wryly, lifting her head, embarrassed now that they’ve all seen her moment of doubt.

Maybe it was expected, though, and only fair: after all, they’re all soldiers, with years of vice behind them, whereas she’s only ever been a good Catholic wife. Well, hardly the best wife to Bonacieux – but taking a lover can be understood, even sympathised with by the people who care for you.

 _This_ … this is off the charts.

Still, she was just saying she wanted a little more adventure in her life.

So she brushes a grateful kiss against d’Artagnan’s lips before turning back to Aramis and asking, thoroughly businesslike, “So how do we do this?”

Aramis smiles even wider as he replies, “Just straddle my waist to start. D’Artagnan, could you give me a few of those pillows?”

Constance settles herself either side of Aramis’ waist as d’Artagnan helps prop him up against the pillows, before pulling her forward and into a kiss, letting Aramis reach out and take her from him after only a few moments. They trade kisses for a while, and Constance loses herself a little in warm mouths and soft lips, and forgets that she’s naked and that Aramis’ erection is pressed up against her backside, that Athos and Porthos are watching right beside them.

She’s still pleasantly half-aroused from Aramis’ mouth on her, and moans against d’Artagnan’s lips when hands reach back up to her breasts. Her eyes have fallen shut again and she doesn’t know whose hands they are, it doesn’t even occur to her to wonder, she just presses her chest against them and lets herself moan into the mouth that’s on hers with the pleasure of it, wondering if she might even be able to come just from something like this.

“Hey, look at me,” Aramis says, and she slowly blinks her eyes open, too aroused now to be more than a little nervous even when he continues, “Reach back behind you and grasp my cock by the base. That’s it. Now up on your knees, shift your hips backwards and guide yourself down, it’s that simple.”

She would have expected to think otherwise – but Aramis clearly knows what he’s doing, and when he puts it like that, it _does_ seem so simple. So simple to trust in him and follow his lead, to grip d’Artagnan’s hand where it rests on the blankets, to gaze into Aramis’ warm, dark brown eyes, already heavy-lidded, and forget everything else as she lines herself up and then starts to bear down.

She was bracing herself for this, but it shocks her all the same: Aramis is not as thick as Porthos but he’s still thick enough, and it aches suddenly as he enters her, though she supposes dimly that between the way Porthos stretched her and the way Athos fucked her it’s not so surprising.

“Alright?” Aramis asks, brow furrowing, as he reaches up to steady her hips, encouraging her down for what seems like forever until she’s filled to the hilt.

She nods shakily, makes herself speak. “Yes.”

“Good. Shift up towards me a bit, that’s – yes. There.” She lets his hands guide her, put her exactly where he wants her. “Now kiss me.”

Though he’s propped up against a couple of pillows she still has to lean forward on her elbows to reach his mouth, surprised when he tilts his hips, following her forward.

“I can’t do much of this, I’m afraid,” he tells her contritely, “not with this leg. So what I want you to do is just rock yourself back and forth for me, alright?”

She nods, starting to move, tentatively at first until his hands increase the force on her hips again and start to guide her into a rhythm, slow and steady, thrusting up into her and pressing against something that’s _too much_ suddenly, something that’s just beyond pleasure, and she gasps and tries to squirm away.

“Sorry, is that too much?” he asks, mirroring her thoughts as he eases up his grip – and she doesn’t miss the way he grimaces, face twisting in pain as he settles his hips back down, sucking in a breath.

“Yes, and for you too,” she chides. She knows none of the others will have missed his expression no matter how hard he tries to suppress it, and she’s already feeling awkward here, the last thing she wants is to worsen his injury as well.

“No matter,” he tells her, cheerfully enough now the moment’s passed, “why don’t you lean a little further forward, brace yourself on me if you need to, and kiss your husband?”

D’Artagnan has shifted so he’s reclining along Aramis’ side again, and his head’s by Aramis’ shoulder; so Constance settles her weight down on her forearms against Aramis’ chest as she leans in gratefully, closing her eyes again as she welcomes the familiar feeling of d’Artagnan’s lips on hers. She marvels a little at Aramis’ patience: he’s still inside her but seems to feel no urgency about it, and she’s used to d’Artagnan’s sometimes-frantic enthusiasm, who even though he’s considerate of her pleasure never takes more time than he has to, never draws things out. He’s probably never been so patient in his life as the others are making him be tonight, and the thought makes her smile a little just as Aramis starts to move her hips once more.

“Keep your belly low, that’s it,” he says, voice deep against her ear. “I’ve got you. Now. Just tilt those hips back and forth a little till you find the angle you like.” One of his hands leaves her waist, reaching between their bodies. “Rub your sex against my fingers, go on.”

And as she settles into their rhythm and Aramis’ fingers slide between her still-wet folds, all the arousal that had dissipated in the face of her discomfort grows and grows again, quickening her breath and heating her skin from the inside out. It’s like being drunk, she thinks – drunk on pleasure, no longer caring about the men watching her and what they might think of her – no, they asked her and she trusts them, and she knows the real danger’s _her_ , it’s what’s in her head.

Good women don’t do this. Don’t seek pleasure, don’t take lovers, don’t get on top; and even though she chooses to fight the thoughts they’re still there, scars on her heart that make her this timid creature who needs coaxing and leading, who can’t just take what she wants with both hands and a brazen smile.

But that’s what brotherhood’s for, isn’t it? It’s knowing that Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d’Artagnan – they all have her back. When she falters they’ll help her onward, become the woman she wants to be, and let her decide what that’s going to mean.

She wants all their hands on her. She doesn’t know how she’ll make it work but she _needs_ to, even with the problem of Aramis’ injured leg, wants them all surrounding her while d’Artagnan fucks her, close and safe and _together_. She imagines it in feverish snatches, her eyes closed as she rubs herself against Aramis’ fingers, d’Artagnan’s hand on her breast: they’re all holding her up in the air somehow, like a queen on her throne, kissing her everywhere they can reach as d’Artagnan fucks up into her over and over and doesn’t stop when she comes.

She feels loose somehow: pleasure’s unspooling in her belly, not like any orgasm she’s ever had, but warm and right, like a hot bath for her heart perhaps, starting where her body meets Aramis’ and radiating out, making her long to breathe in the steam of it, pressing her open mouth to Aramis’ and feeling him gasp hot against her almost enough.

She could stay like this forever, she thinks, rocking to a rhythm her body’s known all along, though it’s taken them to help her remember; just feeling as wave after wave of it crests through her, it coming almost as a surprise when Aramis shudders and bucks his hips, thrusting into her and coming with a sigh, hauling her forward to kiss her deep as he strokes her back, her sides, her buttocks, eases her back to the present.

D’Artagnan’s face is buried in her shoulder, placing wet kisses to her neck as he murmurs, “Love you, love this, love you so much,” and she pulls her mouth away from Aramis and turns to kiss him properly, becoming aware again of the arch of her back and of Aramis’ spent cock sliding out of her, but curiously immune to her earlier shame.

Before it can come back she makes herself turn to Athos and Porthos, pressed together with their hands on each other’s knees, and say, “I want all of you. Touching me. I don’t know how –”

Between the five of them and Aramis’ bad leg and d’Artagnan’s single bed, when even three of them at once is a tight squeeze? It seems impossible, but at the same time imperative, that they should all be together. Finish this together, signed and sealed with their touch.

She looks back to Aramis, because if anyone would know it’s him; he’s frowning a little at nothing, and she imagines him running through visuals like flicking pages of a book, trying to work out how to make them all best fit together.

“On the bed, I think,” he says at last. “I can sit up, with your head on my lap, that shouldn’t jostle my leg. Athos and Porthos next to me, so you’re lying across all our laps. D’Artagnan at the end.”

She’s nodding before he’s even finished speaking.

She’s the first one to climb off Aramis, and d’Artagnan follows her, standing beside the bed and pulling her close while they wait for the other three. “Are you alright?” he whispers against her hair, though when she pulls back to look at him she can see in his face that he’s just checking in, not seriously concerned.

“Yes, I am,” she replies, feeling as she says the words just how much she means them, how curiously powerful she feels now that they’re almost there, now that she’s had them all and it’s only changed things for the better, drawing them closer to each other, not making her into someone else at all but only making her more herself.

“There’s so much I want to see. To know. How they lie with you. What they like. What _you_ like, with them.” D’Artagnan’s arms tighten around her, and he presses his lips against her hair as he holds her. “I want to know everything.”

“I wanted to tell you for so long,” he confesses. “You’re so brave. Braver than me.”

“It doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes I wonder if we’re both just too reckless for our own good,” she replies, her smile a complicated thing. “But we made it, didn’t we?”

“Yes. Yes, we did.” He beams, kissing her on the nose as he slips his hand into hers. “Now let’s finish this before I lose all remaining self-control.”

Constance turns back to the bed, where Athos, Porthos and Aramis are sitting next to each other along the length of it with their backs against the wall, legs stretched out; and Athos catches her eye, patting his lap expectantly.

“Reporting for duty, Captain,” she says cheekily as she gets up and sits sideways in his lap, greeting him with a kiss, d’Artagnan sitting down beside her and taking her feet in his hands.

“Now, I thought I already said none of that tonight,” he admonishes her, though she can see the amusement playing around his eyes, “that is, unless you want me to turn you over and spank you until your arse is glowing red?”

“ _Oh_ ,” she hears d’Artagnan moan beside her; though there’s nothing she can do other than stare in wide-eyed shock, seeing Porthos and Aramis exchange a glance out of the corner of her eye.

“You already have your orders, soldier,” he continues, reaching up to press a finger over her still-open mouth, his lips curving just a little more when she kisses it. “Now are you going to follow them yourself or do I have to make you?”

“I’ll follow them,” she replies breathlessly, leaning back into the hands that are suddenly at her shoulders, supporting her, and letting them lower her backwards until she’s lying down across the three of them, her head in Aramis’ lap.

“Alright?” he asks lightly, smiling down at her, his hand adjusting her plait, pulling her fringe off her face.

“Yes. It’s just –”

She doesn’t quite know how to explain it. There’s just so _much_ , with them. So much to see and learn and understand, and really she was just experimenting, testing Athos to see how he’d respond and finding it all went far deeper than she’d realised.

The idea of Athos doing _that_ to her – and he’s kissing d’Artagnan now, one hand moving up and down his cock, bringing him back to full hardness, but she’s sure he’s still listening for her reply – it makes her feel sort of flustered and squirmy in a way that she doesn’t know if she can describe, which she thinks she’s starting to gather is a good thing, when one’s brave or reckless enough to follow through.

“There’s so much,” she says in the end, willing Aramis to understand; and he only smiles wider.

“And it’s a beautiful journey, I promise you.” He bends forward and kisses her softly on the lips. “Now. Pull your legs up to your chest.”

She hesitates, looking nervously down her body. They’re all watching her, Porthos with a hand on her breastbone and one on her stomach, Athos already reaching for her thighs, d’Artagnan tucked under his arm and near-quivering with excitement as he grabs her ankles and pushes them up and back, exposing her completely – and before she has time to think Athos has pushed two fingers inside her, slowly thrusting and circling her clit with his thumb, and Constance lets her head fall back with a thud against Aramis’ lap, gazing unfocused into his face.

She doesn’t think she’s ever been so sensitive. She aches inside, but the more they touch her, Porthos’ hands kneading her breasts now and Athos’ arm pressed against her shins, keeping them in place as he strokes her, the more that soreness turns to need. It’s need in her mind now more than anything, but her body’s responding too: all of her knows that she needs her d’Artagnan too, needs him to take her to seal this pact they’ve made.

Athos pulls his fingers out as d’Artagnan puts his hands on her hips, lining himself up; and Constance looks up at his hungry wide eyes and nods, _yes, do it._

Her head snaps back again and she cries out as he fills her in one swift thrust, _perfect_ because it’s him, and he’s home at last. They all are, all their hands on her just like she wanted, Aramis stroking her neck, pressing his fingers against her lips; and she opens for him and takes him inside, moaning around them, looking down again at d’Artagnan as he seems to falter inside her, staring in wonder as he mouths something she can’t make out, a curse or a blasphemy.

She closes her eyes again as he starts to thrust, every inch of her skin alive as their hands map every part of her they can reach, d’Artagnan digging his fingers into her hips hard enough to bruise as he fucks her with that swift, needy rhythm she knows so well. She knows he won’t last, especially not when he’s been made to wait like this, and as she feels herself cresting yet another peak from all their attentions, gasping out and clenching around him, she knows it won’t be long at all.

She forces his eyes open as she feels his pace pick up, as he starts to groan aloud with every thrust, jostling her even harder back and forth across the others’ laps as they both pant for breath, eyes locked as he finally moans long and loud, shuddering as he comes, warm and wet inside her, reaching out to take her hand where it’s clutched in the linen of Athos’ braies; and for one bright, triumphant moment all she thinks is, _I did it._

 _We did it,_ she amends the next moment, feeling d’Artagnan slide out of her body and the ache in her legs as they’re lowered back down, as she turns into the bodies of the men holding her, pressing a kiss to Aramis’ half-hard cock where it’s nestled up against her face and reaching an arm around his waist – but actually, wasn’t she right the first time? She couldn’t have done it without them, but it’s been her night all the same.

 _This is about Constance._ They all said it; and one of the things she’s still unlearning is that ingrained lesson that modesty means always denying and deflecting instead of taking the credit, never just allowing yourself your own achievements.

She shifts again to try and get more comfortable, her thighs sliding slickly together, and realising she won’t be happy until she’s cleaned herself off, tries to get up – only for Porthos to hold her more firmly round the waist and ask, “Where are you going, then?”

“I need a cloth,” she mutters, hoping her meaning will be obvious; but they don’t release her an inch, Athos just replying carelessly, “Oh, d’Artagnan will do that,” as though her husband’s his servant, she thinks.

But when she sees the way d’Artagnan scrambles to do Athos’ bidding as soon as he’s got the words out, she decides she hardly needs to object on his behalf, hiding her smile against Aramis’ belly.

She lets d’Artagnan roll her onto her back again and dab her clean with a cool cloth, expecting to mind a little but soon deciding that everyone’s seen all they could see of her already; and then she’s almost sorry when it’s time to get up again and dress for bed, pushing herself up until she’s sitting up in Athos’ lap, winding her arms about his neck and greeting him with a kiss, feeling one of Porthos’ hands rest in the small of her back.

She has the feeling she should say something meaningful, she decides, pulling back a little to look at him consideringly. Something correctly-weighted, that reflects all they’ve been through together, and what they’ve become.

In the end it’s he who takes her hand, brings it to his lips and says, “Welcome,” and as Porthos and Aramis follow suit, d’Artagnan last, she realises that’s how it needed to be all along.

They dress, slowly. A bottle of wine is passed around, which she assumes one of them must have brought in without her noticing; d’Artagnan, still naked, helps her into her chemise, though she doesn’t bother dressing any further, Aramis drawing her down next to him on the bed and re-plaiting her hair before he’ll let anyone help him dress, with a courteous attention that makes d’Artagnan give them both a look she can’t quite read when she catches his eye.

The other three dress themselves fully, even though Porthos’ and Aramis’ rooms are next door, and Athos is in Tréville’s old quarters just down the corridor; and though it’s no surprise that this will always have to be clandestine, she can see the way d’Artagnan’s eyes follow Athos as he pulls his breeches and doublet back on, from where he’s holding Aramis up while he dresses himself.

D’Artagnan still mostly thinks love’s enough. He hasn’t known nearly as much of compromise and heartache as the rest of them have, in the turbulent months before their marriage reacting to the obstacles in their path first with indignation, as if he believed he had a right to a happiness that was being cruelly denied him.

She thinks he’s a little wiser now, has learned too much to lay the blame, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.

Before long Aramis is getting to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane (and wearing a chemise that looks suspiciously tight across his shoulders), Porthos and Athos are already dressed and standing expectantly, and Constance supposes they can’t delay any longer. It was not so late when they went to bed but it must be full dark now, Her Majesty expects her back at the palace at dawn, and she’s sure all her soldiers will have duties of their own.

She kisses Aramis full on the lips and then puts her arm around his waist, saying, “Here,” inviting him to lean on her as she walks him to the door, because there’s no reason to stand on ceremony now.

“Thank you, Constance,” he says as Porthos takes over, d’Artagnan hovering just behind Constance’s shoulder as if he isn’t sure how to be. “And – we don’t expect fidelity.”

“Oh,” Constance says, eloquently. She hadn’t expected this, and finds herself scrambling for a reply.

D’Artagnan comes to her rescue, taking her hand and replying. “Constance and I are faithful to each other” – which is both true and not now, she supposes, though there’s something of that old fierce morality in d’Artagnan’s tone and she doesn’t quite know what to say.

“As long as you do not expect it of us,” Athos replies, just the faintest shade of warning in his voice.

“No, we…” It takes her a moment, and an edge of panic as she doesn’t know if she can make them understand, but in the end she settles for, “This is… what it is. Between us. Anything outside of this is our own business.”

Both their own assignations, and her and d’Artagnan’s marriage, because she may love all four of them in different ways but only one of them is her husband.

She looks up at them all a little nervously, but finds to her relief that Porthos and Aramis are grinning, and even Athos’ expression is softer than it was a few moments ago. “See? She gets it,” Porthos grins, lifting her up by the waist as if she weighs nothing at all and making her squeal, kissing her on the mouth until she feels like she’s slipping and wraps her legs round his waist, his easy laugh shattering any remaining tension.

After that she doesn’t think twice about stepping into Athos’ arms and letting him pull her so close she feels almost breathless, then pressing her lips to Aramis’ where he leans against Porthos and burying her face in his shoulder for a moment, partly to show her affection but also to confirm by smell that yes, he _is_ wearing d’Artagnan’s chemise, for reasons only known to them.

She pulls back just in time to see Athos and d’Artagnan parting, d’Artagnan’s words of earlier coming to mind when she sees the way Athos is looking at him, as intently and singularly focused as if there truly is nobody else in the room, before they turn away and let themselves silently out the door, closing it softly behind them.

She and d’Artagnan wash up in silence; then they’re climbing into bed together, with the extinguished candle sending curls of smoke up into the room, and she’s nestling into his arms and taking a deep breath just to ground herself when she realises, “This is Athos’ chemise.”

“Yes,” he replies, and she can hear the awkwardness even in that one word.

“And he’s wearing…?”

“Porthos’, who’s wearing Aramis’, who’s wearing mine.”

“And why on earth…?”

“Because they can’t stay,” he bites out – and only then does she realise that the three men who’ve just left them are going back to their own rooms, to their cold, narrow, solitary beds. That they don’t have wives to share them; that their particular manner of love can never be acknowledged, and though she thinks the others have made peace with what they have, she knows d’Artagnan has not.

She thinks very carefully before asking, “Never?”

“Sometimes,” he amends, fingers fiddling with the hem of her chemise. “There are missions. Camping under the stars. Nights in inns. Saving the King’s coin.” The colour comes back to his voice as he speaks. “Though there are few beds that fit four grown men. The best nights are making camp in summer. We lay out our bedrolls together, and if we’re far enough from the road we don’t even need to keep quiet.” He hesitates, his hand curling round her shoulder. “For my part, I’d never slept alone until I came to Paris. And I never wish to do so if I can avoid it.”

“What about during the war?”

“I shared with Porthos and Aramis.” He shrugs. “Athos had his own tent, as captain. It would have been unseemly. I – I know I made it difficult for them.”

“You did what you felt was right,” Constance replies. She feels incredibly uncomfortable to hear that d’Artagnan suffered to make her happy, but knows that she would not have preferred the alternative.

But it seems to be the right thing; there’s only a moment’s silent acknowledgement before d’Artagnan continues, “There’s so much to tell you still. So much death, I don’t want to tell you about that. And boredom. Constantly waiting.” He fights back a yawn. “But so many good things too.”

“Start telling me tomorrow,” she insists. “You’re here now. We have time. “And –” she hesitates, but swallows her nervousness and says it anyway – “some time soon, take me away with you. All of you. Find a mission with lots of nights under the stars and come up with some half-baked reason why you need a woman to help you. You’re my husband now, it won’t be so improper.”

“Athos will rarely be able to leave the garrison,” d’Artagnan points out, but she can hear him smiling. “It might only be one night.”

“One night’s enough. To start.” She reaches up and presses her lips to his in the dark, before bumping their noses gently together. “We just need to start.”

She can feel him smile as he kisses her forehead. “I think we just did.”

And she smiles back against his shoulder, smelling Athos, smelling him, and looking forward to all the things that are still to do, to share and learn and _know_ , and that will all still be there in the morning.


End file.
